


Nobody Ever Had A Dream 'Round Here

by second_hand_heaven



Category: DCU
Genre: (he didn't mean it but the way he talks about it isn't exactly healthy), Accidental Self-Harm, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bat Family, Conner is a good bro, Drunk Serenade, Family, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Leather Jackets, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentioned Character Death, Motorcycles, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Parties, Reunions, Runaway, Slow Burn, Smallville - Freeform, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 04:59:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14927582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_hand_heaven/pseuds/second_hand_heaven
Summary: After his adoptive father dies, Tim leaves Gotham and drifts across the country. He ends up in Smallville of all places, and finds himself stuck. He's not the only one who feels trapped in the small town.





	Nobody Ever Had A Dream 'Round Here

**Author's Note:**

> I've been meaning to post this for ages, and here we are! Welcome to Nobody Ever Had A Dream 'Round Here! An alternate universe where neither Conner or Tim are heroes/have powers, and they meet in Smallville while trying to break free (because wanting to break out of a small town is gay culture).
> 
> The other batfamily members only briefly feature, although Jay has a slightly larger role. I apologise in advance for writing him like a bit of an ass, but he's doing it on purpose I promise. Also heads up for mentions of character deaths (and one blink-and-you-miss-it reference to suicide).
> 
> As always, thanks to TantalumCobalt for their ongoing support with this. 
> 
> (title from "Sam's Town" by The Killers)
> 
> Please enjoy!  
> -Nova xx

 

“I’ve got to get out of here,” Kon whispers to the miles of stretching cornfields. From his perch just below the blades of the windmill, the rows of crops spanning every direction look inescapable. Ever since he stepped off the plane from Hawaii, he’d been looking for a way out of here. He hadn’t made much progress in the year or so since.

Don’t get him wrong, living with the Kent’s wasn’t  _ bad _ . It's the first time he's ever felt like he actually had a family. Which is really kind of sad when he thinks about it. But no, the Kent’s weren’t the problem. 

Small town life is a drag, and Smallville certainly lives up to its name. It's nothing like the bustling crowds of Waikiki Beach. And there's  _ so much corn.  _ Seas of it, undulating in the breeze. It's got nothing on the ocean. A swim in the Hubbard dam is a poor replacement for the warm Pacific waters. 

Smallville: it suffocates him like a pair of underwear two sizes too small. 

The people aren't much better. School is a drag. College is a pipedream, nothing more. Scholarships were out of the question the moment he got kicked off the football team. It's not his fault the Morris kid was being a homophobe. The broken nose  _ might _ have been his fault, though. 

“Conner Kent, your supper is getting cold, young man!” Ma calls from the kitchen window. 

“Coming, Ma.” He's long given up correcting her. It’s not like he prefered the surname ‘Luthor’ over ‘Kent’, or vice versa. It's just that neither seems to fit. Once he gets out of here, maybe he can reinvent himself too. 

He shimmies down the side of the windmill and heads toward the house. He'll figure a way out of here eventually. But for now, there's a slice of pie waiting for him in the kitchen. 

* * *

 

Tim pulls up his bike out the front of a Mom and Pop diner, the type that's dime-a-dozen out this way. Sleek, red, and clearly a custom job, his motorcycle stands out against the dust covered pick-up trucks that line the curb. It's certainly not something anyone in this town could afford. Whatever this town actually is. Small-something? He kills the engine and dismounts his bike. His stomach growls and he places a hand against his abdomen as if to silence it. When was the last time he ate? He slides of his helmet and shakes his sweat-dampened hair. It falls back against his forehead, limp and much longer than he can recall ever letting it grow. If Alfred saw him like this, he’d be chasing Tim around the Manor with a razor. In a very dignified manner, of course. But Alfred isn't here. He shoves the thought to the back of his mind, where the rest if his thoughts about Gotham reside. He's not very successful. 

A cop car pulls up beside him, lights blaring in a display of arrogance. A portly man steps out of the car, sliding his hat on top of greying, slicked-back hair. His sheriff's badge glints in the afternoon sun, like he'd spent all morning polishing it instead of, you know, catching criminals, or whatever small-town cops actually do.

“Is this your bike, son?” His southern accent smears across his words like a bad stereotype. “Where's your licence and registration?”

Tim pulls the plastic card from his wallet and passes it to the policeman. “Yes, sir.”

He looks at the licence, up to Tim's face, and back again. “Now don't you lie to me.”

He grits his teeth. “I'm not.”

The sheriff turns his attention to the device in his hand, clunky like it was straight out of the nineties. “Well I think you are.”

“I  _ told _ you, officer, this is my bike.” His hands clench into fists where they're tucked into his pockets. 

“That’s sheriff to you, son. Sheriff Claiborne. And it says here this registered to a Bruce Wayne. You’re looking awfully well for a dead man, Mr Wayne.” He grins widely at Tim, like the cat who caught the canary. Tim wants to punch him in the teeth. 

Damn him. Damn him all the way to hell. Tim feels himself paling. How dare that guy talk about Bruce like that? That's it. He's going to get arrested for murdering a police officer. He's going to go to prison, and get-

“Everything alright out here, Jebediah?” Tim’s knight in shining armour appears, a silver-haired woman with deep-set crows feet and floral apron. 

“Nothing to concern yourself about, Martha. Just some city slicker bike thief.”

“Is that so?” She turns to Tim with an expectant look on her face.

“This is my bike, ma’am, I swear it. There must be a mistake.” There's been far too many mistakes. Stopping in this tiny excuse for a town is certainly one. 

The woman -Martha- turns back to the policeman. “Surely you can give him the benefit of the doubt, Sheriff?”

“I surely cannot,” he huffs, “this man has broken the law-”

“-Allegedly,” she cuts in, a perfectly innocent look upon her face. Tim likes her already. “Has this motorcycle even been reported stolen?”

“Allegedly broken the law, and must be punished.” A pause. “If he is guilty. Which he is.”

“Then you do that. Arrest this boy, and I will come down to the station, defend him myself, and pay his bail. We could save time and do this right here in the parking lot. A lot of time and a lot of paperwork.”

Tim watches the hamster run on the wheel inside the sheriff's head. 

“I'll send word to Gotham, see what they have to say about this. But I’m impounding this vehicle until this is sorted out.”

Tim bites the inside of his cheek. There's no point arguing, not now. 

“Very well, Sheriff,” Martha says, “Good day.” She turns to Tim. “Come on in, I'll fix you a cup of coffee.”

Mm, coffee sounds pretty good right now. She opens the door, bell ringing, and holds it open for him. He follows her into the diner, and sits down at the counter. 

The aluminium counter is scratched, but still catches the light of the overhead fluorescents. 

“What's your name, stranger?” she asks about she pours him a cup of coffee. 

“Timothy Drake, ma'am.” He leaves the ‘Wayne’ unattached, half to remain anonymous, and half to stop him from breaking down in the middle of this damn dinner. Grateful, he takes the mug and downs the liquid in one go. 

“You can keep that ma'am business to yourself. Call me Martha. Martha Kent.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he says, earning himself a signature eye roll. 

“Did you really steal that bike?” she asks him, levelling his gaze. 

“No, I swear. It's mine. I uhh…” He pauses, unsure how to go about this. He can't let it get out that he's Bruce Wayne's son, that's a given. The press storm, the questions, the awkward condolences; he doesn't think he can take a moment more of that. “I won it at a… a charity auction. Used to belong to Bruce Wayne, they said. That's probably why there's an issue with the registration.”

“I see. Well either way, it looks like you'll be staying here a little while, Tim.” Martha pours him another cup of coffee. “You got a place to stay the night, son?”

Uh no. No he does not. He’d only planned to stop for half an hour at the most. “I'm sure there's a hotel or something around here?”

Martha shakes her head firmly. “Burned down last fall, I'm afraid. The big insurance company didn't want to pay up, and old Nadine hasn't had the money to rebuild quite yet.”

“Ah.” That certainly limits his options. The last town he passed through had an inn of sorts, but that was at least thirty miles back. It wouldn't be an issue if he still had his bike. But now? He's a little stranded. He could hitchhike? Is that what people do when they can't afford a taxi or a limo service? 

“I've got a spare room to put you up in for a few nights, if you'd like?”

Small town hospitality never sounded more alluring. Can he trust her, though? No more than she can trust him, in truth. And she did just save him from what would have been an outright mess. 

Now that would be a fun phone call:  _ ‘Hey Dick, it's me, your screw-up of a brother. No, not Jay. Kidding! I'm in jail in Kansas of all fucking places, please bail me out.’  _ Especially since he hasn't spoken to Dick, or any of his siblings, in a few weeks. Or was it a few months? It's been a while… 

His gut tells him to trust her. And besides, he could take her down with ease, given the need to. Not that he'd want to fight a little old lady, but… wasn't he meant to be answering a question right now? 

“I'm grateful for the offer, ma'am -Martha- but I can't pay you right now. I've got-” he pulls out his wallet, looking inside, “-twenty dollars on me right now. The rest of my cash is with the bike. The bike that just got impounded.” He doesn’t mention the fifty he’s got shoved in the bottom of his riding boot, just in case.

She smiles down at him like she's already made her mind up on the kind of man he is. It's unnerving. “We'll work something out. Don't you worry.”

_ Don't worry _ . As if. If there's one thing he's good at, it's worrying. Dick said he was paranoid. Maybe he is. He thought of it more like a hyper-preparedness; something Bruce taught him. Not that it did Bruce any good in the end…

He shakes his head, trying to dispel the thought. He could really do with a breakdown right now. Shit, he needs a distraction. He needs his brain to shut up for five seconds. He needs-

The bell above the door rings, and Tim turns to look, half startled by the sound and already prepared to fight. 

A guy -boy, man, somewhere in between- walks through the door, straight from one of those fantasies Tim had before the nightmares kicked in. Tight jeans, tighter shirt, and a leather jacket. Wow. A pair of aviators hang from his collar, drawing the fabric down another inch. There's a gold hoop in one ear, matching the golden glow of the boy's skin. 

Tim knows he’s staring but he can’t bring himself to care. Wow indeed. 

Hot Guy is walking Tim's way. Play it cool, Tim. The soft smile on his lips does worrying things to the inside of Tim's chest. 

“Hey, Ma,” he says, leaning across the counter to press a kiss to her cheek. 

“Conner, this here's Tim. He'll be staying with us until this business with the sheriff blows over.”

The guy -Conner, Tim's brain supplies- raises his eyebrows. Surely he’s got questions about this, but he just rolls with it. “We housing a fugitive, Ma?” He grins down at Tim good-naturedly, who's about to start hyperventilating. 

Martha shrugs slyly. “Just for a few days.”

Keys jangle in his hand. “Let me give you a ride home.”   


_ Well _ , Tim thinks,  _ if you insist _ .

* * *

 

“...and this is Krypto,” Kon says, the dog tilting his head at the sound of his name. Krypto leaps up onto the mattress, next to where Tim is sitting timidly on the end of Kon’s bed. 

“You don't mind me taking your room?” 

Kon shrugs. “Nah it's cool. It's not really my room, anyway.” Tim's brow furrows, so Kon explains. “It's Clark, my dad's, old room. When I moved here, Ma said it was mine. Doesn't feel like it.” It’s just a room, a place to sleep and change and jerk off every once in a while. Maybe he shouldn’t mention that to the guy about to sleep in his bed for a few days though. At least he managed to change the sheets. 

“Your dad, is he..?” Tim swallows, his throat bobbing. Dead. Tim can't bring himself to say the word. 

“No. We, uh, we aren't very close. I grew up in Hawaii. He didn't even know I existed until a few years ago. He hasn't been really onboard with it. With me. I mean, I can't really blame him. He's got a wife and his own kid, and...” Kon stops, aware he's rambling about his sob story to this kid. “Sorry, I’m probably boring you...”

“Don't apologise,” Tim says, “you’re far from boring. And besides, you’re letting me stay in your room. It’s the least I can do.”

“You're no trouble. Ma’s got a soft spot for strays.” And so does he, in all honesty. 

“It should only be a few days, just until I can get my bike back.”

His eyebrows tick upward. “That was your bike?” That red beauty from the front of the diner, with all the right curves, was Tim's? He'd seen it before, somewhere. Some celebrity life magazine. He'd dreamed of owning one some day, having his own bike, not some second-hand truck. 

“Yeah. My dad gave it to me.” 

Dad. A rich dad. A recently dead, very rich dad. That certainly narrows things down. “You're Bruce Wayne's son?”

Tim’s eyes narrow, but there is no other change in his demeanour. “How did you..?” He huffs out a small laugh. “From the bike, really?”

Kon shrugs. “It's a pretty unforgettable bike. But I thought I knew your name from somewhere. So your dad is Bruce Wayne?”

“Well, I mean, I'm not his blood son, but-”

It’s obviously a sore spot. Kon’s never been that good at reading people, not like Ma can, but he can see that clear as anything. “Doesn't mean you aren't -weren't- his son. I mean, I've got two biological dads, and neither really act like it. Biology doesn't play much into it.” He's not sure why he's sharing all this, but he's hoping that it helps. 

“Yeah.” Tim nods, a little more confident. “I’m his son.”

Or was, at least. It was all over the news, reclusive billionaire disappearing off the Jersey coast, only for his body to be found weeks later. Or, allegedly it was his body. A few weeks at sea had “made identification difficult”, according to Clark's article. 

“I'm sorry about what happened,” Kon says, mentally berating himself as soon as the words leave his mouth. Tim's probably had enough condolences from strangers to last a lifetime.

“Thank you.” Kon can’t blame him for how hollow the words sound. 

“I know it's not much, coming from a stranger, but if you need someone, let me know.”

“Thank you,” Tim repeats, with a tightness in his words like he's on the verge of tears. 

Kon wants to reach out, to say something to make this all better, but he has no idea where to begin. So he sits beside Tim on the bed, not touching, just there. Tim strokes Krypto’s ears in a soothing rhythm. Whether he's soothing Krypto or himself is another matter. 

The awkward silence between them is only broken when Ma calls them down for dinner.

* * *

 

He’s making up the spare bed in the barn when there’s a knock. Which is odd. Who knocks to enter a barn? 

Ma. “This is your barn,” he says, trying to keep the snark out of his words. 

“I know,” she says, standing by the door. “Thought it’d be impolite to come in without knocking.”

“Come in.” He pulls up the top sheet and blanket, tucking them in under the thin mattress. “Can I help you with something?”

She passes him the pillows, which he slips into their pillow cases. “I wanted to thank you for putting up your room for our guest.”

Kon shrugs and takes a seat on the bed. It's no skin off his back. Maybe an attractive billionaire’s son will do the same one day. “Others first, isn’t that right?”

“It most certainly is,” she says with a wry sort of smile. 

She sits down on the edge of the bed, an arm’s length away from Kon. The silence between them borders on awkward. “How's Pa doing?” he asks, trying to get the conversation moving and therefore done. 

“You know how he is, complaining about the food and still asking for seconds.” Kon smiles because yes, that is certainly Pa. “He's doing better today.” And that's good, but it's not good enough. This isn't something Pa can just bounce back from, even Conner knows that. He also knows Clark still hasn't made the effort to visit Pa yet. Anger clenches in his chest, the righteous kind that always seems to get him in trouble. 

“I know it doesn’t get said enough, but you are welcome in this family, Conner.”

His eyes sting at her words. Turning away, he smooths, fluffs, and smooths the pillow again. Maybe he'd believe that if Clark ever looked at him like he was a real person, not some mistake. “I should probably get some sleep. You know, school tomorrow.”

She nods, understanding, and hoists herself from the bed. Conner feels like a dick. “Night, Ma,” he says, leaning up to kiss her cheek. 

Once she's out of sight, he lays back on his bed with a sigh. 

* * *

_ On the back of a motorbike, the road spills out before Conner like a tin of black paint.  _

_ The wind in his hair is liberating.  _

_ But shouldn’t he be wearing a helmet? What about the body in front of him? _

_ He wraps his arms tighter around their waist. Is it Tim? It has to be. It has to be him. Tim turns and shoots him a glorious smirk, and it brings heat to Kon’s stinging cheeks. The weight of Tim between his thighs, pressed against his chest, it’s phenomenal. Kon moves closer, resting his chin on Tim's shoulder.  _

_ They pass the Lang house, the Hubbard farm, the sign thanking them for visiting Smallville, KS.  Lightning crackles far off in the distance, the sky glowing lavender, slate, heather, for a moment before receding again into darkness. The roar of the engine drowns out the following thunderclap.  _

_ Tim revs the bike again and they speed up, racing through the endless stretch of sky.  _

Kon jerks awake. 

Where the heck is he? It takes him a few moments to gain his bearings, remember the events of yesterday. That red motorcycle. The stranger in the diner. The stranger in his room. Timothy fucking Drake-Wayne, teenage son of a dead billionaire. The fold-out bed in the barn. 

There's a tent in the sheets. The sensation of narrow hips between his thighs had felt so  _ real _ . He could just- 

His alarm blares, some hideously cheery tune. He scowls in its direction. With a sigh he throws his head back against his pillow. Damn it. Damn it all to hell. 

* * *

Tim wakes up from a dreamless sleep and he's never been more thankful. It's the first night in weeks he hasn't woken up screaming for his father. He checks the clock on the bedside table. 4.39pm. That was, what, seventeen hours? How long had it been since he'd actually had some sleep? 

More importantly, how long had it been since he had a shower? He runs a hand through his hair, feeling the culminated dirt and grease against his finger. Yeah, he needs a shower. He also needs some clothes. His jeans should be fine for another day's wear, but the shirt? Nope. 

He crosses the room to the dresser. Conner  _ had _ said to help himself, after all. He finds an old T-shirt at the bottom of the drawer,  _ I heart Waikiki Beach _ printed faintly across the front. He takes the shirt and the fresh towel that was left on the end of his bed yesterday, and heads into the bathroom. 

The hot shower makes him feel human again, melting away the tension and sweat from his body. He makes use of the body wash he finds in the shower and regrets it instantly. The humidity of the hot shower makes the scent of the product, the scent of Conner, diffuse through every pore. Tim shakes his head and steps out of the shower, trying not think about how he knows how the other man smells. 

He dresses, first pulling on his jeans and then the top. The T-shirt is hopelessly large on his frame. The collar nearly slips from his shoulder. Hair still damp, he heads downstairs. Conner is in the kitchen, hips swaying as he dices some vegetables. 

Now that’s something he’d like to see more of. “Morning, chef,” he says, trying not to startle Conner. 

Kon looks over at him, soft smile on his lips. “Afternoon. Just getting a head start on dinner.”

Dinner. Food. He's so hungry, but he's less worried about that; these people are looking after him, and he's done nothing. Maybe he should help? He hasn't really  _ cooked _ before, but it shouldn't be that hard. “Can I help?”

“Uhh sure? I'm just whipping up a quick stir fry. You could give me a hand with the prep?” He grabs another chopping board and knife. Tim takes them and pretends he knows exactly what to do with them. Well, he does know- in theory. 

They find a rhythm together, and it's oddly domestic. Tim helps dice veggies alongside Kon, with minimal guidance. In fairness, it's not like he really had the chance to cook at home. 

Home. Wayne Manor. Gotham. 

He shakes his head and keeps chopping. 

_ Thnk.Thnk.Thnk.Thnnn. _

He looks down, confused by the odd sound. There's a steady trickle of red spilling from his hand, tracing down his index finger. Red. Bright red. He can't stop staring. This should hurt, he thinks, somewhere in the back of his mind. Why isn't this hurting? He watches the blood drip from his hand onto the bench. 

There's a small gash on his hand, a few inches long across the heel of his hand up to the fleshy part below his thumb. Why doesn’t this hurt? Shock, maybe? Or is he just as unfeeling as had Damian said? He pokes it to see. 

“Ahh fuck,” he hisses. The knife clatters onto the bench. There it is. There's the pain. What a relief. 

“Tim? What’s-”

Eyes wide, Tim looks up at him. There's worry clear on Kon's face. Shit shit shit. 

Conner carefully takes his hand. “Tim, it's alright.” His voice is soothing but Tim's head is a whirlwind. “It's not too deep, you're okay. Let's stop the bleeding and then get you cleaned up.” He wraps a tea towel around Tim’s hand. 

Gently, he guides them over the table, gets Tim to sit. He places Tim's other hand on the tea towel over the wound. “Can you hold that there for me? I'll go get the first aid kit.”

Tim nods, his mind still too fuzzy for words. 

Conner returns with a small canvas bag, olive green with a white cross on the side. He works efficiently, disinfecting the cut with an alcohol wipe quickly enough that Tim only has the chance to hiss at the sensation before it's gone. With one hand he presses some gauze to the cut while the other fishes through the bag for some bandage tape. Tim watches as Kon tears some tape with his teeth. 

Tim's hand looks so small in Conner's as he tapes the gauze in place. “There,” he says, pressing the final piece in place, “all better.” 

No, no it's not. Tim grits his teeth. It's far from all better. How could he be so clumsy? So stupid? He deserves it. Deserved to be hurt. It's his own fault, anyway. Always his fault… 

“Tim?” The concern in Kon's eyes is too much. Tim looks down at the table, at the powder blue cloth stained with dark red. 

With a shake of his head, Conner washes his hands and returns to cooking dinner. 

“I can-” Tim tries, but Conner cuts him off. 

“I think that's enough cooking for you for one day,” Kon says, not looking at Tim. He lights the stove and turns on the exhaust, drowning out any argument Tim might put forward. 

Great. The first chance to prove he's a competent human and he messes up monumentally. He sits at the table, hand held up, and tries not to sulk. 

It's quiet in the kitchen when Martha comes in. Trying to prove he's not completely useless, Tim sets the table as the rice finishes cooking. 

He is grateful Martha doesn't bring up the bandage on his hand when he passes her a plate. He knows she probably should. Maybe Conner told her? Anger rises in his throat like bile, but he swallows it down. It’s not like he wants to talk about it anyway.

Dinner passes with light conversation until-

“Another fight, another detention? If your Pa was here, you'd give him a heart attack.” The room grows awkwardly silent. Martha rubs a weary hand down her face.

Oh god. “Is he-?” Tim can’t bring himself to say it. He swallows thickly. 

Martha shakes her head, eyes tight. “He's in hospital in the next town over. Heart troubles. He’s waiting for a place to open up in their rehab centre. Clark sends money when he can, but you know how it is.”

No, no he doesn’t. Even before Bruce, before all that Wayne money, he never had to worry. He hasn't even thought about medical expenses in years. But he nods along, regardless. He doesn’t need Martha to clue onto the fact that he could afford to buy the whole town without batting an eyelid. 

Conner slams his cup down on the table. “If the insurance company would do their job this wouldn't be a problem. Being sick shouldn't be so fucking expensive.”

“Language!”

“Sorry, Ma.” Conner looks down at his plate, thoroughly chastised. 

Tim shovels another piece of chicken into his mouth. It’s almost as good as Alfred’s cooking, although he won’t let the old man hear that. Alfred. He misses that snarky Brit. Tim shakes his head. He can't dwell on that now. 

He clears his plate and excuses himself from the table. 

That night, with his hand freshly bandaged, Tim lies in bed wide awake. His mind won't shut up. He tugs the sheets tighter around himself, burying his nose in the fabric. It smells good. It smells just like Conner. Of course it would, it  _ is _ Conner’s bed after all. The bed Conner gave up for a guest, a stranger. 

These people are struggling, and here Tim is, taking Conner’s bed and eating their food. He’s a burden, just like in Gotham. Their kindness, their care, he doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve any of it. He clenches his eyes tightly shut to ward off the sting of tears. 

No. He can help. He has to. He can do better this time. They've already done enough for him, and he can pay them back. But if he does, he risks being traced. It's worth it, he decides. Bruce always taught him to help those in need. He hacks into the hospital records, then the insurance company. Noting account numbers and figures, he takes in the situation.

With a simple encryption, he makes the transfer. It’s nothing illegal, so he doesn't bother with anything too complex. And besides, it’s not like anyone’s looking for him, anyway.

* * *

After another late shift and another long drive from Bludhaven to Gotham, Dick finally makes it to the Manor. It would be so much easier -and quicker- to go instead to his own apartment, but after Bruce… his responsibility is to his family. 

He’s barely crawled into bed before his phone rings. The ringtone is familiar, bittersweet. “Babs? What is it?”

Despite the late hour, Barbara sounds alert as ever. She’s straight to the point,  _ “Tim’s phone just pinged.” _

All the drowsiness from his agonizing shift down at the PD vanishes at her words. “What?”

_ “He just transferred $40,000 to a shared bank account for Martha and Jonathan Kent.” _

Kents? He wracks his brain, but doesn’t know any Kents, does he? Why would Tim send strangers money? “You're sure it's him?” He knows Babs is good at tracking people, but what if it’s a mistake? 

_ “It's encrypted, not even that well, but it's  _ his _ encryption. That's better than a fingerprint. It has to be him, Dick.” _

He’s reassured, but the fact that it  _ is _ Tim just brings up more questions. What on Earth is the kid up to? “Where is he?” It comes out a little too forceful, but Barbra doesn’t react.

_ “Middle of nowhere, Kansas. Closest town is called Smallville. Lives up to its name, from the look of the satellite pictures.” _

“Send me the coordinates. Please,” he adds an an afterthought. “I owe you one.”

_ “Just bring him home, Dick.”  _ Her concern is audible through the line.

“I'll do my best,” he says, and with that, he hangs up. 

He lets out a sigh he didn't realise he was holding in. Tim's okay. He's okay. They're all okay. He takes a deep breath. They've found Tim, but there's no promising that he'll want to come home. All they can do is try. He rakes a hand through his hair. The family, the company, the custody battle that's about to begin… he can't leave Gotham right now. 

Dick takes a deep breath and dials. It's too late, or too early, he supposes. He won't answer, he won't answer he won't-

_ “Yo, what is it, Dickhead?” _

Of course he's up at 3am. Why wouldn't he be. “Jay, she found him.” There’s no need to explain who. “I need a favour...”

_ “Save your favour for another day, bro. I'll go find him.” _

He tries not to sigh in relief. “Texting you the coordinates now.”

A pause, and then,  _ “Kansas? Really? I thought Timmy had better taste than that.” _

There's a rustling in the background. “Jay what are you doing?”

_ “Packing. I'll leave in ten.” _

Dick rubs the bridge of his nose. It’s a move he’d seen Bruce do a million times. Must be a symptom of dealing with this family. “Jay, it's 3am. Get some sleep.”

Jay scoffs.  _ “Says you.” _

Okay, he gets Jason’s point. But he’s the big brother, he’s the one meant to be giving the orders around here. “It's a long drive.”

He can hear Jay’s grin through the line.  _ “That's why I'm getting an early start.” _

“Jay?”

_ “Cool it, Dick. I’ll be fine.”  _

He knows there's no arguing with him. “Be safe.”

There's a grunt that sounds much too like Bruce, and Jay hangs up. A sigh. Jay can do this. Dick trusts him, knows he can bring Tim home. Probably. No, he will. He has to. 

Dick lays back down on top of the covers. He's not going to get any more sleep tonight. He makes a mental note to give Ted Kord a call. Or maybe Dinah. Either way, he does owe Babs a favour.  

There's a knock on his bedroom door. “Richard?”

“Damian?” He jolts upwards into a sitting position. “What's up?” he asks, trying to keep his voice calm and casual. The door opens, a small head poking in. In the low light, he can see the bags under his brother’s bleary green eyes.“Trouble sleeping?”

Damian shrugs, but it's answer enough. Dick pulls back the covers and gestures Damian over. The boy wrinkles his nose but complies, sliding into bed beside his older brother. 

Dick wraps his brother in his arms. “Babs found Tim,” he says, “Jay’s on his way to bring him home.”

“Good,” Damian mumbles, already half asleep, “I’m sick of doing all his chores.”

It's bullshit, but Dick doesn't call him out on it. He knows Damian misses Tim, he doesn't have to make the boy say it. “Night, kid.”

* * *

The following afternoon, when Kon comes home from school, he finds Tim up on the windmill, sitting on the crossbeam just below the blades. The mill turns lazily in the cooling evening breeze. Something in Kon's chest seizes. Tim is just sitting there, one hand resting on the vertical beam, but there's panic swirling in Kon's bloodstream. Tim's feet swing absentmindedly to a rhythm Kon can't pick. “Tim?” he calls out, trying to keep the worry from his voice.

The other boy waves down at him. Tim's okay, he reassures himself, and he wishes he could believe it. Tim had refused Conner's help to rebandage the cut on his hand this morning, snarky and evasive about the injury. Kon would try again later. He shakes hi head and moves closer to the mill. Krypto races around the base as Kon climbs the structure. 

“It's a nice view from up here,” Tim says once Kon has climbed up to him. “Beautiful.” He doesn't look at Kon, just stares out over the farmland, coloured rose gold by the setting sun. 

“It's corn,” Kon says flatly. He's had enough of all this damn corn.

Tim shrugs. “You don't get many cornfields in Gotham.”

Conner sits beside him, close enough to almost be touching. “At least you get decent cell reception.”

“Touche.” He sighs heavily. “It’s nice up here. Peaceful.” 

“Yeah,” Kon says, his shoulder brushing against Tim's. “I come up here when I need to think.”

Tim shivers, and Kon thinks it's from his touch, until Tim does it again, almost violently. He's only wearing one of Kon’s threadbare T-shirts and his Kevlar riding jeans. How long has he been up here? The sun has started to slip beneath the horizon, but the temperature has already dropped significantly.

“Here,” Kon says and drops his jacket across Tim's narrow shoulders. He nods his thanks and tugs the fabric tighter around him. 

Something coils in Kon’s gut, something he can't name. Tim looks good in his jacket. The thought doesn't worry him. Not now, at least. There will be plenty of time later to worry over it. 

The light is fading, stretching shadows across Tim's face. He looks beautiful, even shaded in melancholy. “Why are you here, Tim?”

“Why are any of us here?” he says, conspiratorially. At Kon’s silence, Tim sighs. “After Bruce died, I freaked a bit. A lot, actually. Denial is a heavy thing. It takes a lot to finally get out from underneath it. I…” he looks out over the fields, face turned away from Kon. “I didn't -couldn’t- believe he was gone. I was adamant he was faking it, or he'd been kidnapped. Anything but…” Anything but dead. “Dick, my oldest brother, he tried his best, but it… it wasn't good. Some bad stuff went down. He figured it would be best if I went away for a while.”

“He really just let you go? All by yourself?”

“He sent me to try a therapist in Metropolis. Thought being out of Gotham was a good idea. I thought it was too. So I left Gotham, headed for Metropolis. Must have taken a wrong turn somewhere...” He chuckles to himself, a little self-deprecating.

“So you ran away?” Conner doesn't mean to sound so accusatory. 

“Yeah, I guess I did. I can't believe I'm telling you all this,” he says with a shake if his head. 

Kon leans back, staring up at the sky. “Who am I going to tell?”

“Your father, the reporter?” Tim deadpans. 

Kon bristles. “He's not…” He trails off. Clark  _ is _ his father, biologically at least. He certainly hasn't acted like a father, even after Lex went away. “He's the last person I'd tell.”

Tim nods, like it’s something he can understand. Maybe he can. 

“So where are you headed next?” Kon asks. 

He smiles at Kon, all soft and a little teasing. “Why, did you want to tag along?”

Yes. “Like I'll ever get out of here. Humour me.” 

Tim looks at him, an unreadable expression tight on his face. “I don't know. Maybe I'll flip a coin. I knew a guy who'd toss a coin to make a decision. Any decision, didn't matter how big. Just flipped that damn coin. Never questioned it. He put a bullet in his brain a few years back. Seems he flipped heads instead of tails.”

“Ouch.” He doesn't know how to react to that. 

“Yeah. He was an old friend of Bruce's. His funeral was my first official outing after the adoption.” He takes a deep breath. “So why do you want to get out of town so bad?”

Why wouldn't he want to get out if here? “This place is for passing through. You stop here for a moment, and you're stuck for good.”

Tim tilts his head and asks, “like Hotel California?”

“Yeah, something like that.” But Smallville isn't an allegory for addiction or rehab. It's a dot on the map, as real as Gotham, and some days it feels more like a cage than a town. And yeah, maybe that cage is gilded with apple pie and a familial love that Kon’s craved for most of his life, but a cage is a cage all the same. 

Tim's silent for a long time. “You could come with me, you know?” he finally asks. 

Conner wants to say yes. He wants to get this small-town air out of his lungs and breathe in the salt-spray of the coast. He wants to ride on the back of Tim's bike, legs and arms wrapped around Tim's body. He wants it so bad his chest aches. He could just pack up and leave. Couldn't he? Does he have to stay here? What's holding him back? The Kents? He doesn't owe them anything, right? They're just covering for their son’s mistake. Clark dumped him on their doorstep and didn’t look back, so why should Conner stay here a minute longer? 

He looks down, across to the Kent’s farmhouse. His throat tightens, the truth lodged there, half-swallowed. “I can’t just leave. Ma needs me. Someone's got to work the farm while Pa recovers.”

Tim nods, like he can understand, but Conner knows he has no clue. Family didn’t hold him back in Gotham, how could he understand how it held Conner here? With a sigh, Kon stands. “It’s getting late.”

Tim pulls himself up to his feet. His foot slips from the crossbeam. His face falls, just as he begins to. Kon’s arm shoots out, grasping Tim's hand and pulling him in close before he can fall. “Careful,” he says, soft smile gracing his lips, “it's a long way down.” He holds Tim there for a beat, their chests pushed together. 

Tim looks up at him through his lashes. “Thank you. Not just for the save.” 

If he leans down a little lower, he could kiss him. The thought catches him off-guard. Would Tim even let him? Is Tim even into guys? It doesn’t matter. This, whatever it is, won’t matter in a week.

He moves his hands from Tim's waist to his shoulders. Much more platonic. He ignores the urge to keep the contact between them, and instead tugs the jacket tighter around the boy. “C’mon, let's go inside.”

* * *

Tim quirks an eyebrow at him. “A party? Really?”

It's just a small gathering at Simon's place since his parents are out of town for the weekend, but a party is a party. It's Saturday night and Conner could really do with a chance to wind down. Maybe Tim could too. “You don't have to come. I just thought, since you don't have anything else planned, maybe you'd like to come with me?” He's so dumb. Why the hell would Tim want to come to some lame high school party? He’s probably used to schmoozing it up with rich folks at galas, drinking fancy champagne and eating those tiny canapes and hors d'oeuvres that are far from filling. 

“Sure,” Tim says, “I've never been to a high school party before.”

He never… Of course. When would Tim ever have the chance to hang out with kids his own age, kids he wasn't related to? Maybe that's exactly what he needs, to be a kid, not a billionaire’s son. “What? You, my friend, have been missing out.”

“Are you sure I can tag along? Your friends won't mind?”

His friends will eat Tim up, he's almost certain of it. It's not often someone from out of town shows up, least of all someone their own age. “Tim,” he says and claps a hand on Tim's shoulder, “it's not that kind of party where people actually care who shows up. And besides, they said I could have a plus one.” Kon winks, just to get a rise out of Tim. Tim flushes, the tops of his ears glowing pink. 

Is he embarrassed about being Conner's potential date? Is that a good or bad thing? Would Tim be interested in dating him, as a guy? Or even as a person. What if Tim has someone back home? It doesn't sound like it, from the way he talks about Gotham, but he could. He vaguely remembers a blonde, caught in a candid shot pressing a kiss to Tim's cheek.

It doesn't matter. It's not like it's a date, anyway. 

“Um,” Tim says, eyes on his shoes, “do you have anything I could wear?” 

Kon lights up, already heading for his wardrobe. “I'm sure I've got something that could work.”

* * *

The music is already blaring when they pull up at Simon’s place, the thud of the bass reverberating through Conner’s chest. He opens the door and makes to get out of the truck, but Tim doesn’t move an inch. “You okay there, man?” Kon asks, nudging Tim’s arm.

“I’m fine. I’m just a little…” Nervous. He’s nervous. It’s a little cute, Kon thinks. Tim fiddles with the arms of the flannel shirt that's tied around his slim waist. “I'm not really good with new people,” Tim settles on saying. 

“Hey.” He waits till Tim looks at him. “You’re going to be fine. They’ll love you.”

Tim doesn’t seem so sure, but he undoes his seatbelt, so it’s a start. Kon has the sudden urge to leap from the car and open Tim’s door for him. 

“Do you have a girlfriend?” Conner blurts out before he can stop himself. Stupid stupid stupid. Why would he ask that? Why would he ask that now? Oh god, this is awkward, Tim’s going to-

“Uh, no. My last girlfriend, Steph, is actually dating my sister, so no.” He laughs at the thought for a moment before his expression hardens. “I'm pretty sure they're still dating. But yeah. Single. Why do you ask?”

Well that's… interesting. He panics for a moment trying to find a reason why he'd ask, without sounding like an idiot. “Just curious, was all. I'll see who I can set you up with.” He’s only joking, but the look in Tim's face is priceless. 

“Please no.”

“Alright buddy, I'll leave it up to you.” They exit the truck and head for the house. Kon nods to a small group huddled by the front steps, the ends of their cigarettes glowing in the dark. As he and Tim pass, he places a hand at the small of Tim's back, and tells himself it's to guide Tim into the party. 

They find Simon and a few others gathered in the living room. Tim tightens the flannel shirt knotted around his waist as Kon greets his friends.

“Hey Conner,” Val calls out, “who's your boy toy?” Tim flushes, and Kon can't help but think that it's a pretty look on him. The t-shirt he borrowed from Kon slips across his shoulder, revealing a new expanse of skin and a sharp collarbone.

“This is Tim. He's, uhh, visiting from out of town.”

“Good to see you making nice, Conner.” Simon grins at him, before turning his attention to Tim. “So where you from, kid?” 

“Gotham,” Tim says, his Jersey accent spilling out like oil across the Kansan raucous. They practically pounce on him, sniffing him out like the fresh meat that he is. 

“Tell me everything.” Val takes Tim’s hand and tugs him over to join her on the beanbag she’s sharing with Sam Lang. 

Kon takes in the rest of the room. More people spill into the room from either end of the hallway. Judging by the cheers coming through the kitchen, there's a game of beer pong already happening in the dining room. 

There's two kegs set up between the living room and the kitchen. The guy manning the keg is built like a linebacker, and Kon vaguely remembers him from tryouts. Adams? Jefferson? Some name of an early President that Conner can't think of or care to remember. No wonder he’s failing History. Whatever his name is, he calls over to Kon. “You want a beer, Conner?”

“Nah,” Kon says with a shake of his head, “I’m the designated driver tonight.”

The guy at the keg gives him a thumbs up and turns back to pouring.

Tim walks over to them, somehow managing to have extracted himself from Val for a moment. “Could I have some, please?” he asks, a little timidly. 

The guy grins at him. “Sure thing, my man!” He pours out some beer into a disposable cup with little finesse. He passes the cup to Tim, who eyes it suspiciously. There's more head than beer in the cup, but Tim can't bring himself to fuss. He takes a sip and grimaces. 

“Is it that good?” Kon smirks. 

Tim pointedly stares at Kon while he downs the rest of the beer. “It's fine.” He turns to the guy at the keg. “Hey man, can I get another beer?”

“You might want to go easy on that,” Kon tries, but Tim takes it as a challenge. Of course he does. He downs his second cup almost as quickly as the first, before heading back over to Val and Sam. 

“Suit yourself.” Kon goes and mingles, leaving Tim to his own devices. 

Which was evidently a bad idea. When he returns to the living room as the victor of two rounds of beer pong (sans beer), Tim and Val are singing along to the music, arms around each others shoulder. Tim catches sight of Conner as he enters and rushes over, beer sloshing from his cup. He clings to Conner's side, still crooning along to the music. “ _ It's gonna take a lot to drag me away from yoouuuuuu!”  _

It’s a nice feeling,Tim’s body pressed up against his own, but right now he can’t think about that. “Okay buddy, I believe you,” he laughs and extracts himself from Tim's grasp. 

 

He heads to the bathroom, navigating the obstacle course of couples lining the hall and staircase, talking, kissing, dancing? Nope, not dancing. That is  _ not _ dancing. He averts his eyes and moves along.  Kon makes his way back into the living room and he freezes. Tim’s sitting in someone's lap, messily and enthusiastically making out with them. Kon makes his way across the room before he can register his movements.

“What the hell are you doing?” It's a little too loud and a little too forceful, but there's something akin to anger roiling inside him. What a lie, of course it’s anger, with a little jealousy thrown into the mix as well.

The couple pulls apart, panting, and Kon finally gets a good look at the person Tim was kissing. Blonde hair and sharp green eyes, a gold rod piercing through their left eyebrow. Sam Lang? Tim was making out with Lang? Of course he was. Not that there's anything wrong with that. He doesn't care. He  _ doesn't.  _ When Kon first arrived in Smallville, he and Lang came together, the only two openly queer kids in a small town. They had a thing, briefly, but it faded out pretty quick. They weren't each others type, but they stayed good friends afterwards. So he most definitely is  _ not _ jealous of Tim making out with Lang. Okay? 

Tim's eyes are wide as he looks up at Kon, and those pretty blue eyes seem to be starting to glaze over. How much had Tim had to drink? God, Ma is going to kill him if she finds out. Which she won’t, Conner won’t let that happen. 

“He’s drunk, Lang, get off of him.” Except it's Tim who's on top of Lang, not the other way around. Regardless, Tim slides off their lap and almost slides onto the floor.

Sam waves their hand absently. “He's drunk, I'm drunk, it's fine, Kon. Go back to whatever the fuck you were doing.” There’s a slight slur to their words.

Kon tries and fails to quell his growing anger. “I don't think so. I can't believe he'd, you'd… Never mind.” Lang was the last person he'd thought Tim would… Actually no, the last person he'd thought Tim would make out with was himself. So what did that mean, Tim making out with Lang? It's not like he can pick Tim's orientation, not really. Lang doesn't have any gender to work from. Back to square one? 

Lang shrugs, unfazed. “Okay then, man.” 

Kon looks around. Where the hell is- Tim's gone. He barely suppresses a groan. Great. Just great. 

Kon scours the house, but Tim is nowhere to be seen, so he heads to the backyard. It's deserted, everyone favouring the warmth of inside. Well, not everyone. He can see a corner of check flannel on the grass, the rest obscured by the garden. “Tim?” There's a sniffle coming from behind the rosebush. “Tim, buddy?” he asks tentatively as he approaches. “You okay?”

Tim's sitting on the grass, knees drawn up to his chest. “Leave me alone,” he says, but there's no force to his words. He shivers, and wraps his arms tighter around himself. The flannel he'd been wearing is laid out beneath him like a picnic blanket.

Without a word, Kon strips off his jacket and places it around Tim's shoulders. “At this rate I should just give you the jacket.” He could, too. It's starting to get a little short at the cuffs, a bit tight at the biceps when he flexes. And besides, Tim looked, looks, good in his jacket. 

Tim huffs, but doesn't complain when Kon sits beside him. He slips his arms into the sleeves of the jacket. 

“What are you doing out here? I thought you were having a good time?”

“You yelled at me,” Tim pouts. 

He didn't…? Oh. He kind of did, didn't he? With a sigh he says, “I'm sorry. I didn't want you to get hurt.”

Tim looks at him with an odd expression. “You were looking out for me?”

“Yeah, of course. What did you think I was doing?” He frowns.

Tim eyes the dirt between his feet. “I thought you were mad at me. For making out with… what was their name?” Even in the dark, Kon can see the blush rising to Tim’s cheeks. 

Kon laughs. “Sam's not my type, Tim.” Not really, anyway. 

“Oh.” Emboldened, Tim asks, “what is your type?”

It could be you, he thinks. “Wouldn't you like to know?” he grins, hoping Tim’s still drunk enough to not push the issue. 

Of course, that’s not the case. “I would. Tell me!”

“No.”

Tim huffs. “I bet you only like people with cool piercings.” He reaches up to gently flick the gold hoop in Kon's right earlobe. “I could get a cool piercing, you know? My ears, or my nose, maybe? Or my nipples!” He dissolves into a fit of giggles. 

Kon rolls his eyes fondly at Tim's drunken antics and tries not to picture Tim with- “I like you just fine, Tim.” It's the truth. 

They sit there in companionable silence. Tim leans his head against Conner's shoulder, using it as a pillow. There’s a roaring in his chest, like the thrum of a motorbike engine. It feels just like when they sat together on the windmill, or the aftermath of Kon’s dream.

“There’s so many stars,” Tim says, “so pretty. They make me dizzy just looking at them. Just like you.”

Wow. How can he react to that? Does Tim even know what he’s saying? “I should get you home.” Stupid, but probably for the best. 

Rising to his feet, he checks his pockets for his keys. He holds out a hand to Tim, who gladly takes it. Conner pulls him upwards, but Tim overbalances, falling forward against Conner's chest. He looks up at Kon through his lashes, just like when they were on the windmill. It looks just like an invitation for a kiss, but again, Conner won't make the move. Not like this. He gives Tim's hand a squeeze before letting it go. Kon tugs the jacket tighter around Tim, hands moving to Tim's hips. “You're such a lightweight.” 

“I'm not  _ that _ drunk,” Tim protests, but he lets himself be held by Kon. 

“Of course not.” Kon slips Tim's arm across his shoulders, bearing some of Tim's weight with an arm around Tim's waist. “Let's get you home, okay?” He doesn't miss the way Tim still leans into his side.

“Mmkay,” Tim says and he lays his head against Kon's shoulder. 

They manage to walk back through the house to say their goodbyes. Lang is passed out on the couch, their head nestled in Val’s lap. 

“I'm going to take him home,” Conner says, and he's answered with a chorus of hollering and the odd wolf whistle. Kon just waves with his free hand and heads out the door.

He piles Tim into the passenger seat with only minor complications. 

“Hey Kon?” Tim whispers as Kon reaches across his body to buckle the seatbelt. 

“Hmm?”

“Tonight was fun. Thank you.”

He pats Tim on the shoulder before shutting the passenger door.“No problem. I'm glad you enjoyed yourself.” He climbs into the driver’s seat and turns the ignition. They pull out of the gravel driveway, narrowly avoiding spinning the wheels, and turns onto the bitumen road. 

He looks over at Tim, whose eyes are barely slits. Tim’s nearly asleep, which is probably a good thing. 

“Kon,” he murmurs, “I have something to tell you.”

Please don't say you're going to be sick, please don't say you're going to be sick, please don't say- “Yeah buddy?”

A pause, like Tim’s weighing the words on his tongue. “I think I might be half in love with you already.”

Kon freezes. “Tim?” He quickly glances over to the passenger seat, waiting for a reply. But Tim’s already asleep. Kon shakes his head, his eyes focused on the road ahead. 

* * *

The next morning, when Conner steps into the shower, Tim's words are still running through his head. He was drunk, surely he didn't mean it. But it sounded so unlike the usual drunken love confession to a friend. He knows what  _ that  _ sounds like, he's done it a few times himself. 

But it couldn't be anything else, anything more, could it? 

He steps out of the shower and wraps a towel around his waist. He picks up the T-shirt from last night and sniffs the fabric of the armpit. Yeah, no. He can't get away with wearing that again. Damn, he needs a change of clothes. He makes his way to his bedroom, pausing at the closed door. Tim's still in there. Should he knock? What if he wakes him? No, he’ll just sneak in, grab some clothes, and leave. No problem. 

He cracks open the door as quietly as he can. Tim's still asleep, thank God. Krypto’s curled up at Tim's feet, awake but content to relax there. 

Kon's jacket, the one he wrapped Tim in last night, is clutched in Tim's arms like a teddy bear. His face is half pressed into the material. At the creak of his dresser opening, Tim snuffles closer to the jacket, a content smile on his face. Kon doesn't think on that very long. 

Back turned to the bed, he drops his towel and starts to dress. He’s stepping into a fresh pair of boxers when Tim murmurs, “nice ass,” from the other side of the room. 

He freezes, the waistband halfway up his ass. “Uh… good morning?”

“I'd say so.” He can practically hear Tim's smirk. 

Kon finally gains back enough fine motor skills to pull up his boxers and turn to face Tim. “Sleep well?” he asks.

“Mmhm.” Tim props himself up on an elbow, hair falling across his eyes. Kon wants to reach out and brush it to the side. It's long enough that he could tuck it behind Tim's ear. Would Tim allow the touch? 

Krypto stretches, before leaping from the bed. He circles Kon once, twice, before scampering out the door. 

“Could you put on a shirt or something? It's too early for godlike boys to wander around my room.” 

Godlike? Now that's an ego boost. He puffs out his chest, earning a laugh from Tim. “Technically it's my room, you jacket thief.”

Tim looks down at the jacket in his arms as though he'd forgotten it was there. “It smells nice.” Tim says it so quietly, Kon's not sure Tim meant for him to hear. 

He pretends he doesn't hear. Instead he steps into a fresh pair of jeans and slips on a black T-shirt. Dressed, he turns back to Tim. “Better?”

Tim makes a non-committal hum. 

“How are you feeling?” Kon says, smirking at Tim's grimace. 

“I think my head might explode, but I'm only 85% sure that it will. So all in all I'm doing okay.”

“I told you to go easy on that stuff,” he says, as though he hasn't been in the very same situation.

“I have an issue with authority figures,” Tim shrugs. “But hey,” he says, tone turned serious, “thanks for looking after me last night.”

Kon ducks his head. “Don't mention it.”

Tim's expression shifts, unreadable. “Okay.” He pulls back the covers, revealing a stretch of leg beneath the hem of his borrowed shirt. 

“Tim, I-” Conner frowns. He means to ask what the hell Tim meant by ‘okay’, but that leg is distracting. Very distracting indeed.

“I'll be down in a second,” Tim says, effectively cutting Conner off. He walks across the room, bending down to pick up last night’s pants. Kon averts his eyes and leaves the room. 

* * *

Conner heads to the kitchen, expecting it to be empty. Instead, there’s a man sitting at the kitchen table across from Ma, a streak of white hair in his fringe. Harsh smirk on his lips, the stranger eyes Conner up and down. “So you're the hick little Timmy has been shacking up with?”

Hick? First of all, how  _ dare _ he. Kon tenses, ready for a fight. “Who the hell are you?” Whoever this guy is, he's bad news. If only Ma didn't have a habit of taking in strays. 

“Conner Kent, that is not how we talk to guests,” Ma reprimands him but he pays no mind. 

“He's not a-”

“It’s okay,” Tim says wearily, leaning against the door frame. “He’s my brother.”

Brother? “What the hell?”

“Conner Kent, meet Jason Todd. Please don't murder each other before I have my first cup of coffee.” He wanders over to the counter, ignoring Kon's incredulous look, and pours himself a mug of coffee. 

“Nice to meet you,” Jason says, pointedly ignoring Conner's glare. 

“So, what brings you to Smallville, Jay?” Tim asks in a mockery of small talk. He’s obviously uncomfortable by being ambushed like this, and it sets Conner's teeth on edge. 

Jason, that asshole, seems nonplussed by Tim’s prickly attitude. “Could ask you the same thing.” Were all of Bruce Wayne's children snarky assholes?

The coffee pot is placed on the bench with more force than necessary. “Answer the damn question.”

Conner bristles. He doesn't like this, seeing Tim upset. He's ready to take this guy down, whether he's Tim's brother or not. 

“Don't act like you don't fucking know!” Jason pauses, looking around at setting like he'd forgotten where he was. At a glance from Ma, he ducks his head. “Let’s go for a walk.”

Conner shoots Tim a look, but Tim just shrugs and follows Jay out the door.

* * *

 

They walk in silence, heading past the barn and into the rows of corn. It’s quiet, something Tim was so unprepared for once he first escaped Gotham’s city limits. He’d hoped that getting out of the city would refresh him, absolve him, but here in Smallville, the lack of city hustle and bustle does little to help silence Tim’s mind.

But he was doing better these last few days. Or at least, that’s what he’s been telling himself. He brings his injured hand to his chest without thought. 

“They sure like corn around here,” Jay mutters as they walk through the rows of sprouting crops. 

“Why are you here?”

Jay snorts. “Admiring the scenery, of course. Why do you think, idiot? I'm here to bring you home.” 

So they found him. It wasn’t some messed up work of fate that lead Jay to the Kents’ house.He shouldn't really be surprised, Dick  _ is _ a cop after all. But how could they find him? It wasn't like he- “It was the money, wasn't it?” 

Jay nods. “Babs was tracing you the moment you turned your cell back on.”

“Of course she was.”

“She said your encryption was shit, too.”

“Sure she did.” But the codes  _ were _ pretty shit if they found him so soon. He'd have to work on that. But then again, it wasn’t like he expected them to be looking for him. 

“They’re worried about you, even the brat,” Jay says, and Tim doesn’t miss the way he  _ forgets _ to include himself in that statement. 

Tim scoffs. “As if.” They're better off without him.

“He just lost his father. He doesn’t need to lose his brother too.” 

“Why not? He’s got plenty of others to pick from.” It's low, but Tim doesn't care. 

Jay turns to face him. “Stop being a shit, okay? We miss you.  _ I  _ miss you. Come home.” 

He’s finally elicited an ‘I’ statement from Jason. He doesn't know how to feel about that. “It doesn't look like it. Nobody stopped me from leaving. Nobody tried to find me.” Nobody wanted him to stay.

“Dickhead said you'd be in Metropolis for a while. By the time we figured out you were AWOL, you didn't want to be found. And sometimes you’re as good as Cass with giving the silent treatment.” 

Cass. She had a recital two weeks ago. It would have been the first one Tim's missed since they became siblings. Guilt creeps in, wrapping a tendril around his chest and squeezing tight. 

Jay steps closer. “We're family, Tim.”

Family. “As if. We're just an assortment of orphans collected by a billionaire with a soft spot for charity cases.” And he's angry, so angry. He's angry at Bruce, at Jay, at everyone. Family don’t let each other drown off the coast, all alone. Family don’t turn on each other in their grief. Family don’t let their brother run away when he’s falling to pieces. 

“Bruce made us a family.” 

“Yeah? Well, Bruce is gone!” he yells, and the truth of his words hurts.  “So it doesn't matter anymore.” Bruce is dead, and he knows it deep within himself. There’s no denying it anymore. His father is dead, and it’s all his fault. No amount of pep talks can change that.

He expects Jay to yell back, a familiar anger rising up between the two. It doesn't come. It's almost worse. “Come home, Tim.” He asks it patiently, softly, and it's all wrong. He places a hand on Tim's shoulder, just like Bruce used to, and Tim is about to shatter. 

Tim shakes his head, tears threatening to spill. “I can't.”

Jason makes a noise of frustration low in his throat. “Can't or won't? I saw how you were looking at that guy. You think he’s going to, what, run away with you? Or make a life here? He’s a kid, Tim. He’s just looking for a good time. Cut your losses and leave the loser behind.”

Tim clenches his fists, his blunt nails digging sharply into his palms. “Don't you dare speak about him like that!” Anger is something he can rely on, it won’t turn against him like Jay’s offer for help.

“Tim-” Jay tries, but Tim won’t listen. Not now. 

“No. Get the fuck out of here now.” Tim turns away, staring out into the cornfields that stretch on for miles. “Just go.”

* * *

 

Tim's coffee, half finished, sits cooling on the countertop. Conner stares at the mug, trying not to think about the conversation going on outside.

“Those boys have been through too much,” Ma says, taking a sip of her coffee. 

Conner nods. Wait. How could she…?

Martha continues, “to lose a father so young.” She shakes her head. 

She knows, oh God, how could she know? Tim couldn't have told her, and Conner certainly hasn't. “What? You know Tim is...”

“I know how to use the internet,” she says, a little defensively. “That poor boy’s face is everywhere.” She knows. How long has she known? The whole time? Either way, Ma chuckles. “At least I know he was telling the truth. That was his bike after all.”

Yeah, his bike. Tim’s only way out of here. Except now that Tim’s brother is here with a way out. Shit. Tim could be leaving without saying goodbye. The thought cuts Conner more than he imagined it would. He moves to the sink, where the window overlooks the front yard. There's a black bike, similar to Tim's, parked on the grass. A red helmet rests against the seat. Must be white-streak bastard’s ride. It's pretty sweet, Kon has to admit, but he likes it better in red. 

“He asked me to go away with him,” Kon says, unsure as to where the words came from.

Ma looks down at her coffee for a long while. “Do you think you would?” she finally asks. 

“I don’t know,” he says, and it's the truth. 

“The night after Clark got his college acceptance letter, I cried myself to sleep. And the next day, when he asked me what to do, I told him to go. The first night you stayed here, I cried myself to sleep. Smallville’s not a bad little town, but Clark was bigger than it, and so are you.”

That's when he knows he can't leave. Not now, at least. Ma knows he can't stay. She's already accepted it, resigned herself to being left behind. She won't tell him to stay, she won't hold him back, and it's not from a lack of care. The opposite, really. It's not that Kon can't leave, it's that he won't. Not now, at least. 

An engine starts, a raucous thrum filling the air. Conner’s eyes leap to the space on the grass where the bike was parked. White-streak bastard pulls out of the driveway, alone, before turning onto their street.  

Krypto barks until the bike disappears down the end of the road.

* * *

 

Tim's still standing out in the middle of the corn when Kon approaches, eyes downcast. They have to have this conversation, but he's going to hate every second of it. “He's right, you know.”

“What?” Tim spins around, a little incredulous and a lot angry.

Conner keeps going. “You should go home. To Gotham.” Why else would Tim's brother -Jason- be here?

“What, you're trying to get rid of me already?” Tim jokes, but his words fall flat and land somewhere on the soil between them.

No. Yes. Sort of. “You need to go back.”

Tim’s eyes are red-rimmed. “They hate me. I hurt them, Conner. I really hurt them.” 

Hate him? How could they? How could anyone? “They will forgive you. Your brother just drove all the way from Gotham to Kansas for you, for God's sake. They're your family, Tim. Your siblings need you.” And if there's anything Kon's learnt from living with the Kent's, it's the importance of family. 

“You don't understand.” Tim says, tears in his eyes. “This is my fault. It's my fault Bruce is dead.”

Conner gapes at him. “How could it be your fault?”

“I was meant to go with him! It was meant to be just me and him, some stupid bonding thing. But I was angry at him. Fuck, I was so mad. So I didn't go. And he  _ died _ , Kon. He fucking died out there, all alone. I should have been with him. I should have died too.” Tears are streaming down his blotchy cheeks. 

Conner's heart shatters. “You don't mean that.” Tim can't mean it. He  _ can't. _

Tim takes a few moments to get his breathing back under control. “Maybe,” Tim concedes, and Kon is hardly reassured by that. Tim wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “I just… I can't go back. I've ruined everything.”

“It wasn't your fault.” He knows Tim doesn't believe him, but he has to try. 

Tim ignores him, shaking his head frantically. “Come away with me?” he asks, searching Conner’s gaze. His eyes are wide, blazing with a desperate kind of hope. “We can go anywhere you want.” It's so tempting. Tim's offering him an escape, but he can't take it. 

Tim doesn't want it to end, Kon can see that clearly on his face. But it has to. This can't happen. Conner can't leave, and Tim needs -Tim deserves- better than being stuck here because of some whirlwind teen love. Love. Is it love? No, it can't be. Not now, anyway. It needs to end before it can be. 

“Tim,” he says, the name drawn out in resignation. “I can't. You know I can't.”

Tim deflates in acceptance. “Yeah. I know.” He exhales like a sigh. “I'll leave tonight.”

Tonight? Can’t they have more time? Maybe it’s for the best, but the thought of Tim leaving like this cuts him to the core.“No, I, I didn't mean you had to-”

Tim's face twists in anger. “You don't want me to stay, now you don't want me to go? What do you want from me, Conner?”

And isn’t that a dangerous question. There’s so much that Conner wants, so much that he can’t even begin to vocalise. He wants Tim to stay, he wants him to go. He wants to go with him if Tim does leave. He wants to stay for the Kents. He wants to kiss Tim. He wants to hold him tight and try to stop the cracks from showing. 

But this isn’t about what he wants. This is about what Tim needs. And right now, Tim needs to leave Smallville in the dust. “You don't have leave right away, but you can't stay here. You can't keep hiding.” Tim needs to face his family, face Gotham, and maybe then he can start to heal. 

“You think I'm hiding here?” Yes. No. Maybe. “This is where I ended up, yes, but I met you! I'm not hiding here. I finally feel like I'm alive again! I could stay here, and I could, we could...”

Conner can't let him go on. He needs to stay strong, he can't let Tim's hopefulness break him. “Tim, this isn't, we can't…” he sighs and his lungs ache with the weight of it. “I can't be the reason you stay.” His eyes plead apologetically, but Tim won't meet his gaze. 

Tim turns away, walking back to the house. “Then I guess you'll be the reason I leave.”

* * *

Tim slides off the pushbike he’d  _ borrowed _ from the Kent’s barn and walks it up onto the sidewalk. Leaning it against the chain link fence, he scans the impound lot. Empty, sans his pride and joy. It needs a good clean, probably a tune up as well, but his bike looks beautiful in the scarce moonlight. 

The gate is unlocked. Tim scoffs at the small town attitude. Gravel gnashes underfoot as he makes his way across the lot. 

He strokes a hand along the side of his bike, relishing the curves. The keys are in the ignition. Jackpot. Stealing a “stolen” bike, is it double the crime? Or does it cancel out, like in algebra? 

A truck pulls ups, headlights switched off. Tim freezes, hiding in the shadows and hoping the bystander will just pass him by. The open and shut of a car door. Footsteps. A creaking gate. Crunching stone. “You're really going to leave without saying goodbye?” the shadow asks, unaware of Tim's racing heartbeat. 

“Don't tell me you're going to miss me, Kon.” Tim grins, a little self-deprecating. “Besides, you're the one who told me to go.”

Kon shrugs, his hands stuffed into his jean pockets. “Maybe I will miss you. Maybe that's why I followed you out here. But I've got class in,” he looks at his wrist, an imaginary watch, “four hours. So let's make this quick.”

“You didn't have to come after me. I didn't ask you to do that.” His anger from earlier licks at his words, though he tries to tamp down the flames.

“I know,” Conner says, “but I couldn't let you leave like that.”

“Then how do you want me to leave?” 

“At least after a kiss goodbye.” They lock eyes, and Kon's expression is wide open. Tim swarms forward, meeting Kon’s lips in a bittersweet kiss. Of course their first kiss is going to be their last. That's just how it is. Kon cups the back of his head, deepening the kiss. They're intersecting lines, not a destination. Tim's thankful, at least, he gets this one moment to keep. He'll savour it for as long as he can. 

Tim breaks the kiss all too soon. “I'll come back, he says, and the conviction in his voice is almost painful. 

“Yeah.” Tim knows Kon doesn't believe a word. There's no way to change his mind right now. But later, maybe. Words don't mean anything right now. 

“Take care of yourself, Conner.”

Kon doesn't answer.

Tim sighs, slips on his helmet and shuts the visor. He walks the bike toward the open gate, where the gravel meets the concrete of the sidewalk. He straddles the bike, the steel and carbon fibre cool between his thighs. 

Tim rides off down the street, into the night that’s sprawling out before him. Kon’s jacket is tucked in the bottom of his bag. He doesn’t look back. 

* * *

That afternoon, Conner is working at the kitchen table, trying to drive the thought of Timothy Drake-Wayne out if his head with calculus problems, when Ma bursts in, all flustered. “I just came from the hospital,” she says and she sinks into the chair across from him. 

Kon shuts his textbook, alert in an instant and expecting the worst. “What's wrong?”

Ma beams at him, throwing him off balance. “Nothing’s wrong. Just the opposite of wrong. Seems some kind soul just paid off your Pa’s medical bills.”

What? “But that's…”

“It's some kind of miracle.”

Yeah, Kon thinks, a miracle with a snarky mouth and a mess of dark hair. He sees whispers of that miracle in the news and gossip columns. Gala photos, MIT admission, haphazard recordings of ballet performances with Tim's voice in the background. He doesn't look for it, but bits and pieces of Tim's life filter back into Kon's. 

He loses his jacket somewhere. The last time he remembers seeing it is in Tim's arms when he slept in Conner’s bed. He doesn't think too much about it. That weekend, he buys a new one. It's not the same, but it fits a little better than his old one, and the zipper isn’t as temperamental.

A new company buys the pharmaceutical corp that sold the drug Pa needs for his heart. A little research reveals the company is a subsidiary of Wayne Enterprise. Kon doesn't think too much on that either. 

He focuses on school, does pretty well. Coach lets him back on the football team. He sends off college applications. Doesn't get any replies. Lex is still in prison. Clark still doesn't call much at all. Pa gets better, comes home from the hospital. Things are good, all in all.

His eighteenth birthday comes and goes without much fuss. He doesn't hear from Tim. He's not sure what he expected. He shouldn’t have expected anything. 

And he's not expecting anything as he walks out of school, diploma in his hand. The car park is pretty much deserted, everyone's still inside celebrating. There's somebody leaning against his truck. A bright red bike sits just behind the truck's tray. His pulse quickens and his mouth runs dry. “Tim?”

There he is, dark hair falling across his eyes. It's shorter than when he'd last been in Smallville. His jaw is more defined, but he's still all sharp angles. And he's wearing that damn jacket. It's still a little big on him. 

“I believe congratulations are in order.” Tim pushes off the side of the truck and takes a step forward. A pause. His movements falter.  Conner isn’t sure he whether he wants Tim to step closer or step back. The space between them roils with uncertainty.

“A high school diploma isn't much,” Kon says, “not compared to being accepted by MIT.” 

Tim smiles. “You've been keeping tabs on me?” 

Maybe, maybe not, but that’s not the point here. The point is… what was the point again? Tim’s presence makes his mind fuzzy, disjointed. Shouldn’t he be mad now? Or at least a little cool? They haven’t seen each other in a year, give or take a few week. “Like you can talk, you hypocrite. Does Cardinal Pharmaceuticals sound familiar to you?”

Tim blushes, his smile vanishing, and looks at the tarmac beneath his feet. “It's the least I could do.”

Kon tries and fails to keep his voice even. “The least you could have done was call. Let me know you were okay, if you made it back to Gotham. I could have been there for you, you know?”

“Would it have made a difference if I did?”

Yes. No. Maybe? That's not the point, it's- ugh. It doesn't matter anymore. He's tired suddenly, so very tired. He’s tired of games, of Tim circling around the heart of the matter. “What are you doing here?” 

Kon watches Tim shift and swallow thickly. He waits for the words, but they still manage to catch him off guard. “I came back,” Tim says, his voice cracking on the final sound. He looks up at Kon a little helplessly, and it's all Kon can do to cross the space between them and wrap Tim in his arms. Tim melts into his embrace, one hand on Kon’s hip, the other pressed against the centre of Kon's chest. He buries his face in Kon's throat. Tears trace down the corded lines of Kon's neck, dipping into his collarbone. “Fuck, I missed you. How could I miss you? I barely knew you for a week.” His voice is lower, tighter than before. 

“I make that kind of impression on people,” Kon grins, eyes shining with images tears. 

Tim shakes his head. “I should have called. I should have come back sooner. I should have-”

Yeah, he should have. But right now, it doesn't matter. “You're here now.” And he is. He's here, he's real, he's a solid body pressed against Kon's. Kon doesn't want to let go. 

Tim wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “I didn't think I'd be such a mess. I was going to be so suave.”

Kon laughs softly. “Is that right?”

“Yeah,” Tim sniffs, “was going to whisk you away like a fairytale prince.”

“What makes you think I want to be whisked away?”

“Oh.” He extracts himself from Conner’s arms and takes a step back. 

“Tim. Tim, look at me.” He waits until he does. “That's not what I mean. I… you don't need to steal me away. We could just… go?”

“Conner?” His brow is furrowed but his eyes are alight. There's a restrained kind of hopefulness building between the two of them. “What are you saying?”

“Maybe we could get out of town for a while?” Kon steps past Tim and opens the tailgate of his truck. Tim hasn’t moved. “Give me a hand?” Kon asks, jerking Tim into action. Together, they manage to lift the front of the bike so the wheel rests against the edge of the tray. Slowly, they edge the bike up until it's sitting fully in the truck’s tray. Kon ties it down with some spare ratchet straps.

He opens the driver’s side door, left boot resting against the floorboard. “You ready?” he asks Tim. Conner's not sure if he's ready himself, but it's now or never. 

Tim nods, walking to the other side of the truck. He slides into the passenger seat, eyes and smile wide. He reaches across, linking his fingers with Conner’s. 

“Where to?” Conner asks about they pull out of the school parking lot. He’ll call Ma later and explain it all. He knows she'll understand; she always did. 

“Anywhere,” Tim says with a squeeze of his hand. 

The road spills out before them like a can of paint, fresh with the promise of a new beginning.

  
_ FIN _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and Kudos are always welcome.
> 
> Please feel free to come chat with me on my [tumblr](http://second-hand-heaven.tumblr.com/)
> 
> -Nova xx


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